After Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, young, exiled dancers form the United Ukrainian Ballet Company in the Netherlands. They welcome a soldier into their midst who lost both his legs in the war. With new prosthetics, he collaborates with his fellow Ukrainians on an original piece of choreography, igniting the dancers to channel their guilt and transform their grief. His presence becomes a powerful symbol of those left behind.
In a time of unrelenting conflict and humanitarian crisis, the documentary Front Row offers a gentle yet powerful reminder that not all acts of resistance happen on the battlefield. Directed by Miriam Guttmann, the film tells a poetic and deeply moving story of how ballet becomes a form of patriotism, protest, and healing for a group of exiled Ukrainian dancers—and one soldier who joins them in an unexpected way.
At the heart of the documentary is the United Ukrainian Ballet Company, a troupe made up of dancers who fled their war-torn homeland to continue their craft in the Netherlands. While they are physically distant from the front lines, their hearts and minds remain tethered to Ukraine. The dancers wrestle with guilt, questioning whether performing abroad can ever compare to the sacrifices made by those still fighting. But through their art, they find a way to uphold and express their national identity, proving that cultural resilience is just as important as military defence.
Among the performers are Alexis Tutunnique and Vladyslav Bondar, both of whom bring a deep emotional core to the film. Bondar’s worries for his father—who remains in Ukraine as a soldier—are particularly moving. In one video call, his father describes a close brush with death, prompting a moment of reflection among the dancers. Scenes like this ground the film in real, ongoing trauma, while also highlighting the emotional fragility that the performers bring to the stage.
A turning point in the film comes when Alexis stumbles across the story of Sasha, a young Ukrainian soldier who lost both legs during combat. Sasha is in the United States receiving treatment and learning to walk with prosthetics. Alexis reaches out, extending an invitation for him to watch the ballet. What begins as a gesture of solidarity quickly turns into something much more daring—an invitation for Sasha to join the performance itself.
What follows is a delicate but determined effort to bring Sasha into the world of ballet. He is not a trained dancer—his pre-war life was spent as a barista and graphic designer—and he is only just beginning to adjust to life with prosthetic limbs. Rehearsing alongside experienced ballerinas, Sasha faces physical and emotional hurdles. Yet his resilience mirrors the spirit of the nation he represents.
Guttmann’s direction shines in her ability to draw parallels between Sasha’s military experience and the discipline of ballet. She interweaves rehearsal footage with memories from the battlefield, showing that the determination required in both spheres is remarkably similar. The camaraderie that Sasha once found among fellow soldiers reappears in the supportive, though at times conflicted, environment of the dance company.
The film does not idealise the transition. Not every dancer welcomes Sasha with open arms. Iryna, a classically trained ballerina, initially balks at what she perceives as a threat to the purity of her art. Ballet, she insists, is about perfection—and Sasha, despite his courage, is not a perfect dancer. This tension adds a layer of authenticity to the film, reminding viewers that the merging of art and activism can be messy and complicated.
However, the company adapts. Rather than hiding Sasha’s physical limitations, they rework the choreography to highlight his strengths and presence. His inclusion becomes a powerful symbol, transforming the performance into a living tribute to Ukraine’s struggle and spirit.
Christiaan van Leeuwen’s cinematography enhances this narrative with elegant, fluid visuals. Rather than static, wide-angle shots, the camera moves intimately with the dancers, capturing their sweat, focus, and emotion. The result is a visceral experience that allows viewers to feel the weight of each step, turn, and leap—not just as movements, but as acts of emotional expression.
As the company travels from Amsterdam to London and finally to Los Angeles, they perform not only for audiences, but for the families and friends they’ve left behind. Sasha’s appearance in Giselle becomes the emotional climax of the film. Viewers watch with bated breath as he takes the stage. Even Iryna, once sceptical, is seen backstage with tears in her eyes, silently cheering him on.
Front Row is a film that operates on both an intimate and symbolic level. It’s not a comprehensive overview of the Ukrainian war. Rather, it chooses to focus on small, human stories—the kind that make global conflicts feel real. It reminds us that while territory and politics may dominate headlines, it is the preservation of culture and identity that sustains a people.
In this sense, Front Row is more than a dance documentary. It is a meditation on what it means to resist. Through every pirouette and plié, the dancers assert their place in the world. Through Sasha’s courage, they honour the cost of freedom. And through Guttmann’s lens, the audience is invited to witness a form of heroism that does not wear a uniform or carry a weapon, but still demands strength, grace, and unwavering belief.
For New Zealand viewers, Front Row will resonate deeply. Our country understands the importance of standing by others in times of hardship, and this film offers a clear-eyed view of how even the smallest gestures—an outstretched hand, a shared stage—can carry immense power. It is a story of pain, yes, but also of beauty, courage, and hope. A stirring tribute to the strength of the human spirit, Front Row deserves its place in the spotlight.
Directed by Miriam Guttmann | 76 mins | Ukrainian | English | Asia Pacific Premiere – The Art of Storytelling Category